Per Diem
by vanillafluffy
Summary: The stipend the FBI gives him isn't enough to keep Neal Caffrey in the style to which he's accustomed. His creative solution involves a tux and lots of charm, but it may backfire when he's caught in the act. Inspired by Mojavedragonfly's "Working Lunch".


**Per Diem**

Money management is a game, but one that Neal Caffrey takes seriously. June receives his housing allowance from the State of New York, and after ten minutes in the flea-trap hotel they'd tried to stick him in, he counts it as one of the bargains of a lifetime. A suite of rooms in an uptown mansion with an elegant wardrobe thrown in? Cheap at twice the price.

Then there's the per diem---it's the bare minimum to live on. To seize that pittance from the FBI and make it go as far as possible, that's where Neal's ingenuity comes in. He's supposed to be able to eat, drink and be merry---not to mention pay for transportation and his cell phone, on $25 a day. Which is ridiculous. Most of it goes for cab fare, and when he points this out to Peter, the agent suggests the subway with a notable lack of sympathy.

It turns out that being underground interferes with his tracker. The first time he hops a train to Little Italy, he's surrounded by G-men within fifty feet of the subway entrance. The bus? Please. He's spent the last four years locked up with that kind of wheezing, stinking riff-raff, he has no intention to submitting to it voluntarily. And since June's largesse doesn't extend to letting him drive her vintage gull-wing Mercedes, Yellow Cab is his friend.

Meals are the tricky part. Neal likes to think he has a cultured palate, and there is a limit to his frugality. Man cannot live by peanut butter alone---nor should he try.

Taking undue advantage of June's kitchen, Neal knows, is a sure way to make her regret extending her hospitality. Heaven forbid! She's generous about coffee and breakfast in general, but he's out of the house most days for lunch and dinner, and he doesn't dare raid the fridge for a midnight snack more than twice a week.

Fashion Week gives him an idea. New York is full of hotels, some of them very good hotels, and on any given night, at least one of them will be hosting a convention, charity gala, business function or benefit. He seldom has to pay for a newspaper---some more affluent soul is sure to discard one in his path---and with a bit of forethought and the cost of dry-cleaning his tuxedo, Neal can usually find free food and drink of reasonable quality on the nights when he isn't occupied with the affairs of the FBI.

This evening's event takes place at a gallery that's within walking distance of his pied-a-terre, which pleases Neal. The canapés are good and plentiful, which escalates his delight significantly, as does the really lovely Beaujolais nouveau. All that pales, however, when he catches sight of an old friend.

The focus of the exhibit are a number of paintings on loan from various private collections. This one is "Ruby" by the American realist Edward Hopper, and Neal forgets his wine and absently plucks a cheese tart from the tray of a passing waiter. He'd forgotten how lovely it is....

Young lovers picnic on a faded blanket. A red-jacketed book lies face-down nearby, open to some romantic verse. A baguette protrudes from their basket, and the young man is uncorking a bottle of wine. He faces away from the artist, looking at the young lady who laughs out at the viewer with a dimpled smile. It's illuminated with Hopper's clear, all-seeing light...the shadow of a skeletal branch overhead falls upon the blanket and the young woman's eyes are hidden by the shade of her broad-brimmed hat.

"Neal? What are you doing here?"

His heart sinks a bit. It's Elizabeth and he really ought to have realized that at some point he was going to meet her in her capacity as a party planner. Great. He'd happily stand there looking at the painting all evening, but she's sure to tell Peter about their meeting, so he doesn't dare.

"Elizabeth, you look lovely!" he begins, shifting a step away from the Hopper and beaming at her. It's true, too. Her aubergine gown is a classic style that suits her and won't ever go out of fashion. He glances around the room. "Is Peter with you?"

This is somewhat embarrassing. He can tell her the truth, which is that he's gate-crashing to mooch the hors-d'ouerves, or he can let her think he's casing the place...which will have Peter on his neck in the morning. Of course, there's no telling whether she'll believe the truth, which would mean broadcasting his penury for nothing.

"Mr. Caffrey, how delightful to see you again!" It's Mrs. Palmer, who owns the Hopper painting, definitely a friendly face.

"Eva, the pleasure is entirely mine!" He kisses her hand, holding it for a moment longer as he gazes into her eyes, projecting his most charming smile. It's been seven or eight years since he's seen her last, but she must've been a beauty in her day. "Let me present you to a friend of mine---" He includes Elizabeth in their charmed circle. "Eva, may I introduce you to Elizabeth Burke? If I'm not mistaken, she's the mastermind behind this marvelous soiree. Elizabeth, this is Eva Palmer, an old and dear friend."

Neal can see the wheels turning in Elizabeth's head. If Neal knows someone here, perhaps he really is on the guest list. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Palmer---"

"Eva, please! Mrs. Palmer was my mother-in-law, and she was a dreadful old bat!"

"Eva, thank you. Neal is a colleague of my husband, Peter, who isn't here this evening. How is it that you two met?"

One of the waiters is hovering nearby, and Neal seizes the opportunity to snag a couple bite-sized morsels. Once she gets going, Eva could talk the ears off an elephant.

"It was not long after the death of my dear husband Frank---which was shortly after the death of my unlamented mother-in-law. I'm convinced that when she got to her final destination, she badgered Whoever was in charge to get him to join her. Horrible woman! But as I was saying, after forty-four years of marriage, forty-two years of it in servitude to that ghastly old lady, I was alone. Frank---really, he was as patient as a saint---but a bit of a mama's boy, if you know what I'm saying---Frank didn't want to change a thing after she was gone. He'd lived in that house his whole life---going on sixty-eight years, he was---and it was full of her junk and I hated it."

The little gruyere tarts are scrumptious. Neal helps himself to another, and something that looks like prosciutto origami. The waiter shifts from foot to foot, but Neal's not about to let the munchies get too far away.

"---told me I needed a good house-keeping service, the whole house was nothing but junk, so I fired him on the spot. Some expert he was! Fortunately for me, this sweet young man---" That's Neal's clue to unleash the 'aw shucks' look, which he obligingly does, swallowing the last nibble of cheese as Eva continues. "---heard me telling the old fool off, and he kindly volunteered to take a look and see if he could help me winnow out my mother-in-law's tchotchkes."

"Wasn't that nice of him?" Elizabeth says, sweeter than the wine as she catches Neal's eye. The delicate flavor of the ham is complimented by a twist of honeydew.

"And he didn't ask for one red cent!" says Eva triumphantly. Elizabeth's eyebrows are arched as high as they can go. She knows something is up, because his reputation preceeds him. He's just glad Eva hasn't mentioned the substantial percentage she'd insisted on giving him. A finder's fee, she'd called it.

"He found buyers for a lot of very tacky Hummels and other tasteless knicknacks that other people besides my late mother-in-law seem to gravitate toward. There were some very nice antique pieces in the attic that he rescued for me, including that wonderful Hopper---" She stops, looking perplexed.

Neal half-turns to look and almost chokes on his origami. The wall beside the little card with the details about 'Ruby' is blank. The painting is gone.

"Security!" he bellows, loudly enough to make the waiter jump. "Seal the building! There's been a theft!"

Eva is shrieking for the manager. Elizabeth steps closer to Neal and says quietly, "It's okay, Neal---you were right here the whole time. I'll swear to it."

Okay? Neal almost laughs hysterically. It's not even in the same zip code as okay. Two rather large gentlemen in plain dark suits are blocking the door to the street---they're just off Broadway---and a petite, silver-haired gentleman with a Dali moustache approaches Eva. "Calm yourself, Mrs. Palmer," he placates her. "We've sealed the gallery, no one can leave---we _will_ find 'Ruby', I assure you."

"Why wasn't the painting wired?" Neal demands. Elizabeth has her phone in her hand, and in five seconds, she'll call Peter, and then he really will be in the soup. "You should've had motion-sensitive, pressure-sensitive, infra-red---"

"We have all of that," the Dali-esque man states, drawing himself up to his full 5'4". "On every other painting in the gallery. But because Mrs. Palmer hand-delivered that one when she arrived this evening, we were unable to complete the security installation before the beginning of the gala."

"Bertie, when you told me about this exhibition, you assured me repeatedly---" Eva is on the verge of going ballistic, Elizabeth looks from the phone to Neal to the door, indecision clear on her face, and he grabs a fistful of origami from the waiter's tray on the 'Get while the getting's good' principle. At the rate things are going, he'll be breakfasting at Ryker's.

"Mr. Bertram, I've spoken with the police, they'll be here immediately," says a woman in a stylish dark suit. "We have a very good response time, Mrs. Palmer."

The sound of sirens triggers an almost Pavlovian response in Neal. He gulps the three pieces of prosciutto like an anaconda and reaches for a cheese tart. Stops. Looks at the waiter. "I was right here the whole time," he says to the man. "And so were you."

"Other guests may want some of the canapés you've been devouring," the waiter says haughtily. "If you'll excuse me---"

"Nope," says Neal. "Get another tray, why don't you?" He seizes the black lacquer tray from its bearer, hands the tray itself to Elizabeth---juggling it gets her attention off the damned phone---and spins the rectangle beneath it to face the startled crowd. There's 'Ruby', safe and sound.

The waiter bolts toward the rear of the gallery, but there's someone stationed at that exit as well. The thief is led away in handcuffs, to Neal's immense relief.

Neal is hailed as the hero of the hour. Eva invites him to dine with her on Sunday afternoon---that's one less meal to worry about; he remembers the bounty of her table fondly. She's within comfortable walking distance, too. Mr. Bertram is profuse in his thanks and swears that Mr. Caffrey has an invitation to any event at the gallery, ever, which may also prove fruitful. Danielle, the woman in the suit, gives him her number, but he suspects she isn't a cheap date.

Elizabeth just smiles. The phone has disappeared back into her clutch. "I'm going to have fun telling Peter about this one," she declares. "That guy wasn't one of my usual crew---the agency I use sent him out, and while we were setting up, he must've overheard them talking about the lack of security on that specific picture. Good thing you were here to save the day, and I can't wait to see the look on my dear, sweet, suspicious husband's face when he hears about it!"

Despite the police presence at the event, Neal stays until the very end. After all, poor Elizabeth is one helper short, and he's happy to give her a hand with the clean up. With all the commotion, the attendees had partaken more heavily of the wine than the food, and Neal satisfies his appetite on the leftovers.

As they're leaving, Elizabeth presents him with a bagful of surplus canapés. He's chagrined. He'd thought he was being unobtrusive. "For a midnight snack," she says lightly, although it's well past the witching hour. He bows over her hand with a kiss, but this time his smile is rueful.

"Thank you, Elizabeth, and my warmest regards to your husband." He winks and strides jauntily away.

There's enough food in the bag for lunch tomorrow, and maybe dinner as well. Carpe per diem....


End file.
